


Ever After: A Geraskier Story

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Buff Jaskier | Dandelion, Fighting, Fluff, Funny, Jaskier saves Geralt, Lighthearted, M/M, Rated T for swears, bandits, ever after au, geralt is a damsel in distress, its very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24628711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier are caught by bandits. Jaskier uses his quick wit - as well as one of his more hidden talents - to save the day (and his witcher). Geralt is intrigued by this new side of Jaskier he's never seen before. Inspired by Ever After (1998).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 424





	Ever After: A Geraskier Story

“Can’t we just rest, Geralt? Just for a bit?” **  
**

Jaskier lagged several metres behind the witcher, his feet dragging through the dry leaves that carpeted the forest floor.

“No.”

“But Geralt-”

“No.”

Jaskier groaned, rolled his eyes, then jogged forwards to catch up with Geralt’s long strides.

“Look,” he said, shifting the weight of his bag on his shoulder, “Neither of us has slept properly in three days. Neither of us have eaten anything other than old bread and stringy rabbit in four. Let’s just stop, just for an hour. Please. It’ll be dark soon anyway.”

Geralt trudged on in silence.

“I get that we’re after that monster or what-have-you…”

“Werewolf.”

“Werewolf, thank you,” he nodded, acknowledging Geralt with a wave of his hand, “I get that you want to go kill or cure or, or _marry_ this beast, but we’ll be dead by the time we get there at this rate. We’re gonna drop dead of exhaustion, or a nasty bit of rabbit’ll have us shitting ourselves to death, or you’ll _get_ to that tiny little town and the werewolf’ll take a single swipe at you and that’ll be _it_.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier took this as progress - at least Geralt was responding.

“And anyway,” he continued, aware that he was aiming below the belt, “Roach is exhausted.” 

Geralt stopped in his tracks. Jaskier, a step behind him, smirked to himself. Not waiting for Geralt to speak, he shrugged his bag from his shoulder and let it fall to the ground, followed - somewhat more gently - by his lute.

He stretched his arms, extending one then the other across his chest with a pained noise. Geralt waited - just for a second - before following suit, dropping his swords from his back, letting them hang from one hand. He made a movement to place his swords next to Jaskier’s things, when he suddenly paused, staring into the trees.

“Geralt, what are you-”

“Run.”

“What?”

“Run!”

And then, without warning, they were surrounded. Four men burst from the trees to their left and a further three from the right. Geralt tried to dart forwards, only to find the way blocked by two more, both brandishing swords. 

Bandits. _Shit_.

Geralt grabbed his steel sword, letting the silver drop to the floor, but moved too slowly - the closest bandit was already swinging for him. He spun, meeting the bandit’s sword with his own, but his grip was lax, the blade twisting his wrist. The bandit lunged again and Geralt met him once more with a discordant _clang_ , the sword spinning from his grip and onto the ground.

The rest of the gang lurched forwards, a mess of swords and voices. A huge, burly man with a missing ear stepped forwards with a snarl, planting a heavy boot on top of Geralt’s sword.

Geralt spat at the ground then hurled a quick, furious blast of Aard towards the earless bandit, but clearly misjudged the strength of the spell, sending both man and sword hurtling towards the trees.

“Jaskier, for fuck’s sake, _run_!”

“Fuck _that!”_

Barely even thinking, Jaskier hurled himself at the nearest bandit with the vague intention of bringing him down. Beside him Geralt hurled a shot of Igni towards their attackers, and the bandit, more occupied with dodging the wave of fire, had his back to the bard. Jaskier slammed into him, hooked a leg around his ankle, and sent them both falling to the ground.

The bandit swore, and together they rolled around in the dirt for a few moments, Jaskier reaching for his dagger and the bandit fumbling at his hip for his sword. They rose simultaneously, and as the bandit finally pulled the sword free from its hilt Jaskier gave him a swift kick in the wrist. The sword dropped and Jaskier kicked it, hard, swearing as the heavy hilt collided with his toe but sending it skidding away.

He span back, his hand moving to his side to grab his - 

To unsheath his - 

_Shit_. 

_Where the bloody, sodding hell is my -_

He didn’t have time to finish that thought as the bandit was on him, twisting his arm around to his back and holding it there. There was a shiny glint in the corner of his eye, and then the cool kiss of steel against his throat.

_Ah_.

“Looking for _this_ , bard?”

He stiffened. “Well, actually, as it happe-”

The blade pressed closer to his skin. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Right, right.” He licked his lips nervously. “Got it.” 

Usually in this sort of predicament - one he had, unfortunately, found himself in before - it’d be a quick shout to Geralt and he’d be free, if not a little blood-splattered. But Geralt was struggling himself, taken by surprise and now without his swords, boxed in by four huge men. He hit them with another sign, but the spell was weakened, his energy drained. Jaskier could only watch as the bandits, merely momentarily stunned, knocked him to the ground. There was muffled shouting, and he distinctly heard Geralt swear, and suddenly it was all over. The bandits stood just inches behind him, their faces smug, leaving Geralt stood stock-still, bound with shackles around his ankles and wrists.

“Dimeritum.” A man extracted himself from the group, clearly the leader. “We couldn’t risk you setting off one of your little _magic spells.”_

“Fuck.” Geralt sighed, his shoulders set, his stance awkward with his ankles shackled together. “What do you want with me?”

“You’re a witcher. There’s gotta be some bastard out there willing to pay for your kind. Especially _you_ , Butcher.”

“You decided to fight me on a _hunch_?”

The bandit leader shrugged. “There’s a war on, Butcher. Times’re hard.”

“Yet not hard enough to stop you getting your hands on dimeritum shackles,” replied Geralt, an eyebrow quirking.

The leader grimaced, but one of the others - wiry and angry - spoke up. “You’re in witch hunter territory. It’s a risky profession. What of it if we… re-purpose what they don’t need no more?”

Geralt raised his eyebrows but said nothing as the leader of the gang shot the one who had spoken a nasty look.

“Shut it, Mikel,” he growled, “The witcher doesn’t need to know where we got ‘em.”

The man named Mikel fell into silence, his face sour.

“These shackles…”

“I told you, I _ain’t_ saying…”

“I don’t give a shit where you got them. Let me go, and I won’t kill you… and you can sell them.”

“What?”

“These are heavy. If you’ve got these, you’ve probably got more. Melt them into ingots and sell them. Sell them for a better price than what you’ll get for a witcher, certainly. Especially considering the sorts of people who’d be mad enough to buy a witcher from a bunch of bastards like you.”

“…How much?”

Geralt shrugged, as much as he could. “250 crowns. At least. For a single ingot.” 

The leader seemed to be considering this, mentally calculating which could be worth more to him.

“That’s a fair price,” he said, finally.

“More than fair,” agreed Geralt.

“He’s fuckin’ lying to you!” 

The leader twisted to glare at the man who had shouted, then back to Geralt.

“Or…the witcher _is_ lying to me. But that’s irrelevant. What matters,” he continued, “is that we’ve got him. And someone somewhere in this _fucking waste_ will pay for him. And when they ‘ave… well, then maybe we’ll find a buyer for the dimeritum.”

Geralt smiled. “ _Hopefully_ someone in this fucking waste will pay for me.”

The leader frowned. “Bruno, if you’d be so kind?”

The man standing behind Geralt’s left shoulder grinned, showing off a host of missing teeth, then in one sudden movement swung up with his sword and hit Geralt at his nape with the hilt. Geralt’s head jerked forwards with a muffled grunt. 

“Thank you, Bruno.”

Geralt snarled. Jaskier could see black, oily tendrils beginning to sneak up his bare wrists where the metal rubbed against his skin, the dark stains edged in red. _Shit_. In one of his more talkative moods, Geralt had told him about the dimeritum shackles used against mages, but he’d never seen them in action. Geralt was clearly in pain - but hiding it, trying to maintain his composure. 

Jaskier tried not to swallow, uncomfortably aware of the blade against his neck. He silently weighed up the risks of struggling free - trying to calculate if the bandits would think his death merely collateral damage. He shifted, a little, trying to get a better look at the men standing around them.

There was a hot, unpleasant breath in his ear. “Don’t even try it,” the bandit muttered, his voice low, “or we’ll be seeing just how sweet you can sing.”

“Leave the bard out of this,” the bandit and Jaskier both froze as Geralt spoke, Jaskier feeling the man’s hand tighten around his arm, the blade twitch on his neck, “he’s done nothing to earn your ire.”

The man holding the knife to Jaskier’s throat raised his eyebrows at their leader, questioning - but not lowering the knife.

The leader snorted through his nostrils. “ _Fine_. The bard may go.”

Jaskier pushed his way out of the bandit’s arms, straightening his doublet as he did, trying to regain his composure. “ _Thank_ you.”

The leader smirked at him. “The only thing this idiot’s done is associate with the wrong people. We’ve got no squabble with you, bard, and I doubt you’re worth much. But I’d advise you to keep better company in the future. Shouldn’t be hard, a pretty thing like you.”

Jaskier’s nose wrinkled in disgust as the other bandits jeered. He peered around at them, chewing on the inside of his lip. He counted them. One of them had wandered over to his things and was now holding his lute in muddy hands. _Urgh_.

“If you’ve no issue with me, sir,” he said finally, “then I’m sure you won’t deny me my things? My bag, for one, and…” he nodded at the muddy bandit, “my lute.”

“Aye, I’ve no issue with you.” He turned to the man, “give the little lark his lute back and let’s get the hell out of here.”

Jaskier strode over to the man, snatched the lute from his hands, then reached down to pick up his satchel and bedroll.

“You know,” he said, making a show of heaving his things into his arms, “I’ve seen things in these parts far worse than a band of boys with swords. And now I’m without a bodyguard.” He paced as he spoke, making sure all eyes were on him. “There’s loads of you, so if you’re set upon by kikimores or wolves or some other bastard things you’ve not a care in the world! But what am I to do, hit the beasts with my lute?” He stopped, suddenly, as if struck with an idea. “You should give me the horse too, so I can get out of these cursed woods alive.”

The leader stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing, incredulous. “My, my! He’s a fiery one. Is he always so demanding, witcher?”

Geralt smirked. “More so, usually.”

“Hah!” The leader edged forwards, and Jaskier noted the way his hand gripped just a fraction tighter on his sword. “Master bard,” he said, with a mocking bow and a smirk, “you can take whatever you can carry.”

Jaskier considered this. He licked his lips. “Do I have your word on that, Sir?”

The bandit spat at the ground. “You do.”

“Swear it to me.” 

He rolled his eyes. “I swear it by Melitele’s pendulous tits: you can take whatever you can carry. Happy?”

“I am, yes,” Jaskier nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

He set his shoulders and strode towards where Geralt still stood, flanked by a pair of bandits. He didn’t look away, his eyes set on Geralt’s. He thought - for just a fraction of a second - that something like panic crossed his friend’s face. He moved quickly, surely.

Jaskier dropped the satchel and bedroll at Geralt’s feet and slung his lute around to his chest. He paused for a second, taking a deep breath, then lifted Geralt’s arms, sliding _his_ arm between them, bent down, and in one slightly shaky movement hauled him bodily off the floor, heaving him up across his shoulders.

“Right, then.” He bent his knees a couple of times, getting his balance. “Well.”

He nodded towards the leader of the band then strode off once more, perhaps not with as steady footsteps as before, Geralt slung over his back. He walked past the bandit who, just minutes ago, had been holding a knife to his throat.

There was a heavy, ringing silence.

And all the bandits burst into laughter. Jaskier ignored them, trudging doggedly on.

There was a voice in his ear.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier didn’t respond, focused on keeping his weight steady.

“ _Jaskier_.”

“What?”

“What about Roach? My swords?”

“Well I’m sorry I can’t deal with _everything_ , Geralt.” 

The weight on his shoulders lapsed into silence once more. Jaskier was about to navigate the best way across a rather steep ditch, when there was a shout from behind, cutting across the laughter.

“Bard!”

Jaskier kept walking.

“Bard!” The leader of the band struggled to call out over his own laughter. “Turn around, you gods-cursed minstrel! We’ll give you the fuckin’ horse, you prick!”

He stopped. He turned. “You swear?”

“Yes, yes, on Melitele’s titties and old d'Aubry’s chiselled bollocks,” laughed the Bandit, his eyes sparkling. “Put the witcher down, you madman.”

Jaskier considered it for a moment. Clearly, if they did decide to chase him, he wouldn’t get very far - and there was no reasonable way he’d be able to carry Geralt all the way through to the other side of the forest.

He nodded, just once, then let Geralt drop back to the floor. 

The leader of the band approached Jaskier, reaching a hand into his pocket and pulling out a slightly rusted key. 

“Them shackles,” he said, now addressing Geralt, “they’re really worth that much?”

“More, if you can sell them to a mage. Or a witch hunter.”

The bandit sniffed, then chucked the key at Jaskier, who only just managed to catch it. “Let him free. You - the _both_ of you - are more fuckin’ trouble than you’re worth.” 

Jaskier didn’t need telling twice, and was quickly on his knees, scrabbling to unlock the first set of shackles around Geralt’s ankles. They clicked open, and while Geralt made no sound Jaskier could see the way he relaxed his posture, sensing him let out the breath he’d been holding. He rose hastily, eager to free Geralt’s hands, where the skin beneath the shackles was stained an oily mix of black and red, hot beneath Jaskier’s fingers. He winced, avoiding Geralt’s gaze as he gently twisted his wrists around, inserting the key and popping them open. They fell to the floor with a thud.

Jaskier quickly scooped up the shackles, keeping them away from Geralt’s skin, and tossed them towards the bandit. 

“Now,” the bandit said, shoving the shackles into his bag, “get your shit, and _get the fuck out of here_ before I change my mind.”

*

Jaskier tossed another handful of dry bark onto the fire before settling down at Geralt’s side, very deliberately _not_ bragging about how correct his assumptions had been that both of them needed to rest. Beside the fire lay two dead pheasants, ready to be plucked and roasted. Jaskier sighed. Were it not for their near-miss with the bandits, it would have been a nice evening.

Geralt shifted a little as the bard dropped to the floor next to him, bumping him with his shoulder. His head was down, staring at his wrists.

“Here, Geralt-” Jaskier reached out, and Geralt flinched automatically - but soon relented. He turned a little, unresisting.

Jaskier gently stroked the burnt skin, still raw and angry looking. A fine coating of ash came away on his fingertips.

“We need to get this cleaned, Geralt.”

Geralt snatched his hands back. “It’s fine.”

“Don’t be an arse. I’ll admit I’ve not the slightest idea how that dimeritium stuff works but even _I_ can tell this won’t heal properly unless you treat it.”

Geralt huffed, to which Jaskier only silently rolled his eyes before reaching towards Geralt’s bag, making a show of stretching to grab it instead of just standing up. He dragged it towards him across the dry forest floor, then started to rummage.

“If I were you,” he said, rooting around in the bag, “I’d tell me which one to use, or else I’ll just get it horribly wrong and you’ll end up being able to see in the dark through your wrists. Or covered in cooking oil…”

Geralt sighed. “Silver bottle. Black liquid. Red stopper.”

“Thank you.”

Jaskier found the bottle and quickly got to work. The stuff inside was indeed black, but far thicker than he’d anticipated - almost creamy. He dropped a little onto Geralt’s left wrist, who grimaced, then began to carefully rub it into the burnt skin in small, rhythmic circles. The ash lifted from the wound as he moved, staining Geralt’s skin in whorls. 

He sensed Geralt wasn’t in the mood to talk, so worked in silence. The salve felt cool against Geralt’s burning skin, and judging by the way his tensed fingers were relaxing it was working as intended.

Jaskier was nearly finished when Geralt finally spoke.

“Jaskier.”

There was something in the way he said it - something unsure, something quiet - that made Jaskier’s head jerk up. Geralt was watching him - not watching his slow movements against his wrists, but watching his eyes, like he was waiting for something.

“Did I hurt you?” Said Jaskier, loosening his grip, “Sorry, I’m not… all these witcher potions, you know, I’m not su-”

“It’s not that.” Geralt swallowed, uneasy, “Thank you.”

Jaskier shrugged him off with a smile. “If I don’t do it, no one will. And then when your hands rot to pieces and fall off we’ll _both_ be fucked.”

“Not that either.”

“Oh?” Jaskier rubbed the last of the salve in and moved his hands away with a flourish, letting them drop into his lap, fingertips stained grey. “Then what?”

“You know what.”

Jaskier _did_ know what. “I don’t think I do,” he said, cocking his head to one side.

“ _Jaskier_ …”

He chose to ignore the warning tone. “What, Geralt?”

Geralt sighed and turned to stare into the crackling fire. “Today. With those bandits. That was very… impressive.”

Jaskier took a moment to compose himself - to ensure his voice didn’t crack. “Oh?”

Geralt turned back to him. “I wasn’t aware you were so… strong.” He finished, simply. “Like I said. I’m impressed.”

“Impressed, eh?” Jaskier raised an eyebrow, “That’s high praise, coming from you. _Extremely_ high praise. Perhaps I’ll include it in my next ballad… the bard saving the great White Wolf from terrifying bandits with his quick wits and unparalleled strength…”

“Absolutely not.”

“Hmm, you’re probably right. Wouldn’t do to tear down the reputation I’ve so meticulously built up for you.” He paused, for a moment, thinking. “Impressed, you said?”

Geralt nodded.

“Tell me…” Jaskier wet his lips, making sure not to look away from Geralt’s yellow eyes, his wide pupils, “tell me how.”

“How what?”

He scooted closer across the ground, leaves bunching between them, till their knees were pressed together.

“Tell me how impressed you were.” 

He’d been told - by villagers, by mages, by Geralt - that witchers didn’t have emotions. That they were stoic creatures, governed by logic and reason, not their fleeting feelings. Yet even in the low light of the fire and the setting sun, Jaskier could see the shift in Geralt’s expression - the way his pupils expanded, the set of his jaw. If he were any other man, he’d be blushing. He appeared to be thinking - finding the right words.

“You’re a lot stronger than you look. I hadn’t realised.”

“You never asked,” he responded, leaning closer. “You never thought to look.”

“It appears I’ve underestimated you.”

“It appears you have.”

They both lapsed into silence, mere inches apart. Jaskier blinked a couple of times, trapping his bottom lip beneath his teeth. His heart was pounding - but he tried to hide it, tried to look unphased - even though he knew Geralt would be able to hear it thundering away.

Perhaps he _wanted_ him to hear it.

“Well,” Geralt said, finally, “I’ll make sure not to do it again.”

Jaskier smirked. “Not to get caught by bandits so I’ve no choice but to rescue you like a leather-clad damsel in distress?” 

“No,” Geralt smiled - Jaskier was sure he was smiling - his voice dropping to a low murmur, “I won’t underestimate you.”

Geralt’s eyes were shining. Jaskier couldn’t help it - he leaned forwards, his hands sneaking towards Geralt’s, his whole body urging him to close the maddening gap, the inches between them suddenly feeling like impassable miles. The tips of his fingers and the chapped skin of his lips tingled, _ached_ \- 

“Besides,” continued Geralt, “you’ve always dragged your feet when it comes to training. Now you’ve got no excuse.” 

“Says the one who was overwhelmed by bandits mere _hours_ ago. Maybe it’s you who needs more practice. Unless you fancy trading roles? I take up the sword and you the lute?”

“I should have known that even a bandit holding a knife to your throat couldn’t convince you to take any form of training seriously.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Maybe I just don’t need it,” he shrugged. “Clearly I’m just _naturally_ talented.”

Geralt tilted his head. “Shame,” he murmured, his gaze darting from Jaskier’s eyes, to his lips, to his hands.

“Shame?” Jaskier repeated, intrigued, “How so? I can’t imagine it’s something you’re keen to repeat.”

“No?” Geralt leant back, suddenly, and the space between them opened up - a sudden, endless distance - “If you don’t think you could do it again…”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Hmm.” He peered down at his red wrists, and when he looked back up, he really was smiling. “Well: I’d be honoured to be your damsel in distress again, if the need arises.”

“…Oh?” Jaskier wasn’t sure what else to say, rubbing his fingertips together anxiously.

Geralt didn’t even blink. “Leather-clad or otherwise.”

For once, Jaskier found himself dumbstruck, his decades of flirting suddenly forgotten. All his well-practised lines and rehearsed phrases for this exact situation vanished, his mind suddenly blank. 

“I… Geralt…”

“Yes?”

He stared at him, at the way the fire illuminated his face, picking out his features, half swathed in shadow. His eyes - huge, yellow, shining. He could just lean in, finally bridge that gap, learn what Geralt’s lips felt like on his own. What he tasted like. Was he flirting? Was Geralt, the immovable White Wolf, actually _flirting_ with him?

He felt the moment slipping away beneath him the longer he dithered. Was that really it? Was that the tipping point for all this? The simple act of heaving Geralt over his shoulders? If he’d known, he’d have done it years ago…

Maybe he could just kiss him. And if he pushed him away - if he balked, if he turned in disgust - then, well… it was simple adrenaline. The relief of freedom. It was-

“Jaskier.”

He looked up. “Wha-”

And then Geralt was kissing him, a gentle hand cradling his jaw, their lips pressed together - not too hard, not too soft - like a dream.

It was over in a flash, almost like it had never happened, and Geralt was moving away, moving towards the spluttering fire and the pheasants, blasting the smouldering embers with Igni to re-ignite the flames.

Jaskier blinked, his heart racing.

“You were right, you know,” said Geralt, as if nothing had even happened, grabbing the nearest pheasant and beginning to pluck, “some rest will do us both good.” 

He edged forwards. The only evidence of the kiss was the prickling of his lips.

“Yes,” he said, finally, “I think it will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This fic is inspired by the bandit scene in Ever After, which I suspect had a rather formative impact on me. Specifically inspired by [this post](https://ancientstone.tumblr.com/post/619653954332180480/i-desperately-need-a-scene-like-ever-after-were) and [this post](https://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/615876968401043456/i-dont-have-the-wherewithal-to-write-a-full-fic) on Tumblr. While we're talking about Tumblr, come say hi at [a-kind-of-merry-war](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/) !


End file.
